


Carry It Forward

by IdleLeaves



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drinking to Cope, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21986860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: Crowley's been sent a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition. He doesn't deal with it well.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Carry It Forward

Aziraphale finds him long after midnight in one of London's decidedly less reputable taverns. The infernal energy he'd sensed, earlier, had been familiar enough to draw him off course from his assignment - just a simple blessing, really, and no reason it couldn't wait until morning. As Aziraphale moves through the crowd of patrons, he spots Crowley on his own, looking rather the worse for wear.

The tables at the back of the tavern are nothing more than wide rough-hewn planks nailed over barrels, and Crowley looks like he's been tucked into a corner for some time. The lamp above him sputters with a weak flame, and he's pushed the table's candle away, almost to the edge, leaving him in shadow. Though there's a cup in front of him he's drinking straight from the bottle, instead - not a good sign. Aziraphale takes a seat directly across from him without invitation.

"'ziraphale," Crowley says. Aziraphale has always disliked hearing his name said like that - by anyone - but it seems Crowley is really quite intoxicated, and bound to miss a syllable here or there.

It'd be much easier if he could see Crowley's eyes, but even in the dim light his glasses are fixed in place. As far as Aziraphale knows, it's still rare for Crowley to drink - well, not drink, but get completely drunk - alone; something must have happened, something out of the ordinary. Aziraphale says as much. Crowley does not immediately answer.

After a moment, though, he pulls a small scroll from the air and passes it across the table to Aziraphale. A tiny curl of smoke rises from the broken seal; Aziraphale looks from the scroll to Crowley to the scroll again before unrolling it. He can't read it, of course - some languages angels are not meant to learn.

"Commendation," says Crowley, before Aziraphale has to ask. "For Spain." He sounds - disgusted, almost, but this hardly registers with Aziraphale over the fury rising in his chest. He clamps down on it before it gets out of hand, here where there are any number of humans in a none-too-spacious place.

"You," Aziraphale starts. "It's your - so you're... _celebrating_?"

"No!" Crowley says, too loudly. The nearest patrons turn their heads; Aziraphale suggests, without words, that they'd best focus on something else. "I didn't do it. Humans thought it up all by themselves," Crowley continues. He snaps his fingers sloppily and the commendation burns to ash in Aziraphale's hands.

"But Hell thinks you...?"

"Might've told them I did."

Aziraphale doesn't quite understand. "Why on Earth would you do _that_?" he asks.

Crowley shrugs, and takes a long sip out of the bottle of whatever he's drinking. "Got to keep downstairs happy," he says, with as much sarcasm as he appears able to muster. It mostly falls flat.

"You really didn't know?"

"Swear, Angel."

"All right," Aziraphale says, and they sit in silence for a while. The tavern patrons have started to depart; there are still a few laughing and making noise, but fewer than before. "Look," Aziraphale says, "where are you staying?"

"Rooming house," Crowley says, waving his hand in no particular direction. "Down that way. Haven't been back in London long enough to sort anything else out."

"Let's go," Aziraphale says, and stands; Crowley just looks confused. "Come on," Aziraphale continues firmly, "let's get you out of here." He pulls Crowley easily to his feet with a hand under his elbow.

Crowley pales, and sways for a moment before finding his balance again. "Please don't do that again," he says, as Aziraphale directs him through the tavern and out the door into the chill of the night. It's cold enough that their breath fogs in the air, but it appears to do nothing for Crowley's sobriety - or lack thereof. Aziraphale follows him to a nondescript rooming house a short walk from the tavern.

Crowley's room is barely big enough for its narrow bed and small side table; the shutters of its square window are tightly closed and locked. He drops down on the mattress, removes his glasses - setting them none too gently on the side table - and rubs a hand over his eyes.

Aziraphale sits beside him. "I think you need to sober up," he says; Crowley just shakes his head. "You'll feel awful in the morning if you go to sleep drunk," Aziraphale reminds him. Surely he can't have forgotten that in just fifty years or so.

"I probably deserve to," Crowley says, "for taking credit for something so appalling." His laugh is soft, and a little bitter. "Do you know what they're _doing_ to-"

"I know, Crowley," Aziraphale interrupts. "I know." He doesn't, truly - not the details - but he'd heard just enough to be horrified. Letting Crowley explain it to him will do nothing positive for either of them; it's a kindness, Aziraphale thinks, to pretend to know more than he does.

Crowley tilts toward him, and his forehead lands in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. Aziraphale allows it, this time, and raises his hand to rest on Crowley's back. Crowley draws in a deep breath, then lets it out again in a long, slow exhale. 

"I hate this century," Crowley says, and moves away. He rises unsteadily to his feet and sheds the outer layers of his clothing, leaving them in an untidy heap. Aziraphale folds it all neatly and sets it on the end of the bed; Crowley, down to his shirtsleeves, lies down and pulls the blankets up to his shoulders.

"I still think you should-" Aziraphale begins.

"No," says Crowley.

Aziraphale sighs; Crowley's as stubborn as he is, most days. "Sleep well," Aziraphale says, and begins to stand.

Crowley's hand catches him around the wrist. "Don't," he says. "Not yet." His eyes are bright but hazy; Aziraphale sits back down.

"Just for a while," he says, and abandons any though of leaving - at least for the moment. Crowley's answer is a vague nod, and while his grip on Aziraphale's arm lessens he doesn't let go. Aziraphale extinguishes the candle with a gesture, and listens to Crowley breathe, steadily, in the dark.


End file.
